


The Lull

by Filigranka



Category: Compilation of Final Fantasy VII
Genre: Delirium, In canon they have never met I don't care, M/M, Stream of Consciousness, hate: connecting people
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-15
Updated: 2018-06-15
Packaged: 2019-05-23 18:21:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,993
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14939453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Filigranka/pseuds/Filigranka
Summary: It was all the same, on some basic level. Silver hair and black leather, and cold hands, and his illness, and his fever, too high to control the reality. Just like then.





	The Lull

**Author's Note:**

> Million thanks to greenjudy for helping me with grammar, articles and other terrible creatures!

 

 

In the end, it was just the same.

Rufus didn’t know, Rufus didn’t realise, Rufus was in delirium. He could only -  _feel,_ for lack of a better word; but he felt that much. It was all the same, on some basic level. Silver hair and black leather, and cold hands, and his illness, and his fever, too high to control the reality. Just like then.

Of course, there were differences; some clearer part of his mind was screaming about their importance – _not help and soothing, and care, o_ _nly hunger for power, hate and contempt_. Screaming, sending images, pleading, begging, explaining – _Rufus you have to wake up_ , _have to remember_ , _he is your enemy,_ _Rufus_ , _you must not run away from this_ _you must take responsibility_ , _you must save yourself – your secret – your corporation – your world_.

So? Maybe it _was_ important once, Rufus was almost-but-not-quite musing, but it isn’t anymore; and this stupid brain forgot to notice, this stupid brain should simply shut up, because his body is exhausted, because Rufus can't muster any strength any longer and he needs help, soothing, caresses – _it's the past, past, past, it's not for you, not anymore, never again, you're drowning in the memories, it's a fever, it's geostigma_ – so be it, he snarled mentally, I need even the false ones.   

There had been a time – “once” was, in Shinra's current state, quietly, quickly dripping into “now” – when an illness of the president's son, mako-heir (eyes as bright as the “new clear energy” commercials) would grant the boy the presence, obedience and fear – or had it been love? – of the very Silver Demon. And the Demon could grant him anything: people's deaths, pain, screams, sobs, pleas, exotic artifacts, fruits, sweets and books. Maybe, if Rufus had ever asked, the whole company. But he had wanted to surpass, impress his father using his own power– the old man had been satisfied _enough_ by his Poster Boy SOLDIER – so he had never tried. Maybe he’d never wanted the father to really get killed. He would never know. He would never wonder.

Young Shinra had been clever, brilliant, bright (mako-driven energy, white suits, Midgar) and sharp (Masamune, needles, Midgar). He’d observed, learnt, utilised. Young Shinra had been and was now, for all of that was coming back to him, pretending to be the present.

...The wife of the President is dying and the President is staying, sitting, kneeling by her side, yelling at the doctors – but it won't change anything – and the child is afraid, exiled from mother's rooms, so, so afraid; and then this silver, this tall man, this strange smile, like an unused mask, uncertain, yet tender, yet caring.

...The silver net, silver swamp, silver cage. Never “curtain” or “waterfall” or other fluffy phrases. The hair smells like blood, sweet, decayed blood and sharp, exotic spices. Yet the little prodigy is hiding himself in it, letting the emotions flow and go; knowing that nobody can break the silver barrier and so Shinra’s – no, not tears, never tears – just a shiver, uncertainty, too high-pitched laughter… here, little Shinra is safe.

...They are reading some stupid fantasy book, something about peace and knights and kings, something about good defeating evil. Rufus lives to impress, still a child, and so he is laughing cynically, ignoring the knot in his chest and the distance in the green, shining eyes. The older boy is going to war in a few days, obeying his silver chain and they both know it. ‘My prince’ he will sometimes call Rufus from that day (Godo and other members of royal family will treat him like a plebeian anyway, even when his company will bathe most of them in their own noble blood, make them cough their own blue blood and aristocratic phlegm on their connections, beliefs and mako-rich lands.)

...Young Rufus is ill. Fever so high, he couldn’t read books or play games or even listen to music – everything is slipping through his mind, repeating itself in terrible circles, making him nauseated. He won’t die, he knows. Yet he takes a silver strand in his fingers, he says ‘love me, love me, just today, just once, before I die’ and he kisses this beautiful, cold – coldness is a wonderful thing – man, and he licks his thin, stern, closed lips, his tongue abnormally hot. And Silver Demon, who destroyed cities, killed thousands, brought a nation to its knees, Silver Demon, frightened, lets him. He will let him do more, much more. He will give Rufus the cage of his body, that perfectly carved weapon and prison both. He will let the boy kiss, lick, brand and re-brand, take and possess, and he will let him pretend these were caresses.

Silver Demon, they called him; The Butcher of Wutai, Eastern Menace, Midgarian Curse, Shinra's Sword, Poster Boy, Living Blasphemy – and many, so many other names. All the words were colliding, collapsing, then expanding again in the President's – son of the Presi... – President's? – head, but he couldn't choose the proper one for the man – the boy – who sat near his bed – wheelchair – now – _who torments you, who is a danger, great danger_. All silver and black, and green, and all the same, but some tiny part of Rufus was protesting, protesting so fervently, and perhaps it was right.

Shinra blinked – or rather whole world blinked, making the man disappear for a moment – and decided he must consider this possibility. Later. Not now when the whole world was blinking like mad, every second, as if it tried to stop tears.

‘Oh, our little victim of someone's else dreams, someone’s else actions, poor little laboratory rat.’ _Not rat,_ Rufus protested in his head weakly, _rats are dirty pests._ _I would like to be a gentle, fluffy little rabbit._ ‘But you are a rat; cunning, ruthless, useless, destroyer of a harvest, destroyer of the Planet, petty, sneaky thief with whole Lifestream as your granary. Where did you hide Mother, my little thief?’

‘My mother is dead,’ he answered. The question seemed absurd.

‘Little, dying, confused rat,’ he still recognized the falseness of the sympathy, ‘I believe you called it Jenova.’

 _I cannot tell you that,_ Shinra wasn’t sure even why, but he couldn’t tell, couldn’t te—

He couldn't _breathe_ – the water, greasy, filthy water, black water, deadly water, his memories, his own blood – he bit his tongue, his lips, he tried to spit the blood and black, bitter phlegm, couldn't find any saliva, only copper and oil, and illness – he was suffocating and there was pain, galaxies of pain, in his bones, in his eyes, in his brain, and death looked tempting, so tempting, he should stop fighting, he stopped fighting, almost – and suddenly there _was_ water.

 

The real, clear, azure water, wavering, reflecting the equally clear and blue sky. The sun and the softest, cool breeze. Warm sand under his palms and in his hair, so very real.

Delirium was gone. Rufus remembered. Everything, like he had never forgotten. The name of the friend was Sephiroth, the name of the enemy was Kadaj, but Sephiroth was behind all of this. Sephiroth killed the old man, razed the company to the ground, almost became a god, suffered defeat. Sephiroth had been lost in Nibelheim: the name of the enemy was also Sephiroth.

And then the words.

‘Kadaj is not really the brightest, is he?’ The voice was deep, but unnaturally cold, seemingly slipping directly into soul, ignoring not only ears, but neurons as well. ‘Rats always survive,’ the air continued to speak, sounding slightly disgusted. ‘Especially _drowning.’_

Rufus recognised the voice and he would shiver or laugh if he could – but he hadn’t got any control over his body. He tried talking.

‘Sephiroth.’ Talking worked. Interesting.

‘For the longest time I have been called by that name,’ agreed the universe politely. Sephiroth always had been polite, even during rampages or interrogations ~~.~~ A trait of the demons, Wutaian priests had said: courteous, but heartless.

‘It’s an illusion, right? This beach, this world?’ asked Rufus. To kill time, to gain information, to get some control, to understand.

‘Of course it is. What else could it be... sir?’ there were some subtle changes in tone – it became more substantial, physical. Still arrogantly mocking, though.

Shinra almost sighed. ‘And what is the nature of this particular illusion?’

‘You are asking where you are and what have I done to you, sir?’ The voice didn’t belong to the universe or the air anymore, it was now coming from one single point, just behind the President's head. Rather unnerving. ‘Are you afraid?’

‘No.’ Rufus tried to smile and failed to move a muscle, but despite this the smile materialised in the sound of his voice, ‘only curious.’

‘It is a place in your head, sir. I have created it with the Lifestream's aid and I took you here, sealing Geostigma away – or rather, sealing _you._ Your mind. Or soul, whichever you prefer. I will let you go when the attack ends.’

‘And what if it won't end? I may die in any moment, Geostigma in its last stages is—’ Rufus wanted to ask “why”, but he doubted he would get anything close to an answer.

The voice only laughed – the empty, lifeless sound like the rustle of the autumn leaves.

‘You will not die. Not until you tell my useless servants every bit of the information they may need to know. Not until you lead them to ~~the~~ Mother. I will make sure Kadaj never repeats that mistake again. You shall not escape. Sir.’

Remnants, recalled Shinra, had been questioning him and eventually, tired of his dodges, had resorted to torture and narcotic in one – to the Geostigma. Rufus had been ill for almost two years, and he’d lived through many attacks, but had never experienced such a strong one. That much he knew, but he did not actually remember. He couldn't grasp any coherent memory of the last few hours. He was wondering how thankful to his defense mechanisms he should be, when Sephiroth – the voice – moved even closer. The President felt something similar to the shadow, a thickening of the substance, that lay over his hair and face. His eyes closed.

‘Your body is fighting very a formidable battle and while it will be victorious, you should not interfere. Geostigma is an illness of the soul – it preys upon your worries, anguish, memories, mental exhaustion.’ Something resembling fingers, but more fragile, like coagulated energy, started stroking Shinra's hair, then temples, then cheekbones. ‘Please rest, sir.’

 _You make “please” such an empty word, SOLDIER First Class,_ thought the President, _such an empty word it is in your mouth, such emptiness is opening in this word—_

‘Sir...' 

‘Call me _Rufus_ ,’ he said whimsically, like a child. ‘It _is_ my name. Don't you remember?’      

Pause. Stillness in whole illusionary world.

The answer, when it came, was collected and certain; the wind started blowing again.

‘If I do that, it will bring you only pain. Whoever – whatever – I was to you, sir, I am not anymore and will never again be. I do _know_ your name, but I do not _remember_ it. Such is the price for dying and believe me: mine was the lowest one. A much worse fate awaits your kind, sir.’

 _So many “sirs” for such harsh words,_ thought Rufus dimly. Although they were probably meant to be gentle – even the last sentence was bitter rather than cruel. The touch of ghostly fingers became more tender, softening the meaning. But the President was flooded by anger. Hadn’t he just confessed weakness to this man? And what had he gotten in return? Cool rational rejection.

He hissed: ‘Don't be mistaken. A multitasking device – that's what you meant to me. Just a powerful tool,’ and he waited for punishment.

Waited. Waited. And waited some more. The warm sand, the humming waves, the sun, creating silly pictures beneath his eyelids. Time went by, but it could stop just as well. It wouldn't make any difference.

‘Don't you care?’ Shinra asked finally.

‘Neither for your feelings, nor for your judgment. Why should I? You are a man who hides Mother from me, that's all.’

The indifference in Sephiroth's voice was cutting. He continued, seemingly amused. ‘So, I was but a tool to you and you are just a laboratory rat to me. I would called it even, sir,’ sarcasm returned to his tone. ‘But, pray tell, was I your medical device? Because you cry for me every time Geostigma takes away your consciousness.’

The President didn't find a good enough answer, and the universe returned to the lull-state. These strange fingers were making little circles on his throat, his cheeks, stroking his chin and eyelids, smoothing brows, massaging temples. Rufus was, contrary to his own instincts, becoming more at ease.

‘I'm but a rat to you,’ he broke the silence, finally, ‘and you don’t care for such pests, yet you shielded me from the suffering, just like in the past. For that I'm—grateful.’

‘I need you alive, that's all.’ The reply was composed, emotionless. ‘Making such... unfortunate inferences or being grateful will...’

‘—bring me only pain, but you don't care about it—’

‘I don't even _know_ what I did in that past you mentioned—’

‘You took my hand. I was lost. My mother was dying. You were protecting me. And you were gentle. But it doesn't matter anymore.’ Bitter laughter. ‘So, why the beach? I've never taken you for the summer type.’ While he was talking, something like a flick of sympathy passed through the illusion and immediately died.

‘You had the impression of drowning. It's easier to transform than to create,’ Sephiroth took the change in subject with obvious relief. Shinra almost smiled. Nothing can change the nature of the man. God’s-in-waiting nature, it seemed, too. ‘It's almost over. Soon, you will return home. The geostigma should be subdued for the next few days.’

‘You are sending me back to the wheelchair,’ Rufus retorted, irritated. After such ~~a~~ promising progress, Sephiroth dared to simply throw him back into the Remnants’ hands?

‘I am sending you back to _life_.’ The reply was strangely melancholic. ‘You will be fine. Just tell Kadaj what you know—tell him the truth—about Mother, and I will make him cure you.’

‘Because you missed your chance to use me? Need my help? Or because I was calling you and you are—were—curious?’

‘I need your help? Gracious, consensual help from the rat?’ mocked the voice. ‘Yes, you called my name, at the very verge of dying. However, I don't recall being curious. Try to fall asleep, it’s the easiest way to send you back and I would rather not waste too much energy.’

‘And if I won't?'

‘Then I will waste some energy, the same energy I take from the dying souls of your kin, and I will send you directly. You will suffer greatly, I presume. Transgressing death is a severe crime, after all. But I will not take the choice away from you, sir—aren't you the one in charge?’

‘I'm not dead yet,’ spat Rufus. ‘And I don’t plan to die in the next hundred years...’

A cold chuckle was all he got as an answer.

‘Unfortunately, _this_ , sir, is not for you to decide. Sleep—you know too much about pain, I can tell even without my memories, and too little about preventing it. Or maybe you don't care. Either way, sleep.’

‘It's you who shouldn't care.’

‘Even now I can feel thousands of your memories, all about me, fragments of my past—but I cannot leave you there to chase them. I will seize them later, one by one, and eventually _I will_ remember. You... You were calling my name. In case you were... something, someone cherished by me in my previous life, I wouldn't want to hurt you. Not too much. That’s all. Don’t mistake it for care.’

‘Rest assured,’ snarled the President. ‘You never hesitated to kill even your closest friends. Never shed a tear or felt regret. When your memory and personality return, you will stop caring about hurting me, though you will recall, that I was, indeed, _valuable_ to you.’

He wasn't bitter saying that. Not at all. That coldness was part of Sephiroth's truth: he had known this man too well to delude himself by calling it a ‘facade.’ He had been attached too much to bother, back then, so why should he be bitter now?

‘Yet you’re are alive, sir. And I would like it to continue this way. Sleep,’ Sephioroth changed his tone abruptly; it became so tender it almost hurt. Phantom fingers were stroking Rufus’ hair, imitating real care so well, that Shinra could almost believe... ‘Whatever I was to you, it _is here_. If I ever protected you, then find a lullaby in thought that I am here now. Let your memories soothe you. The future won’t be that kind, the present isn’t... But now I am here and I’m the past for you. Make it calming. Make it safe. Make it a dream.’

The charm was working. Only the President’s will was stopping him at the verge of reality, preventing him from slipping into the soft darkness under his eyelids. There was something close to hesitation in the voice, a pause, and then, even more delicate:

‘It’s all right. It’s safe. I’m here. You have to sleep. You will survive all of this and we will meet and you will tell me why it’s important to call you ‘Rufus.’ _You will_. But now you have to sleep. Sleep, Rufus, sleep.’

And so he did, letting himself fall into the inside of his own head, trying to ignore the sudden stroke of pain in his chest.

           

When he woke up, he was in the bed, tied by medical cables, encircled by screens and sighs of relief. He had been dead, they told him later, for a minute and half.           


End file.
